Nightmares
by JustDanny
Summary: Bad night, uh?, asks the man on the couch. George nods. Sit down here, Tully tells him and, strange enough, he complies. George is not so keen on these feel-better chit-chats. Not with a stranger, anyway; not with a stranger with those eyes and that smile that's way too nice for him, but he sits down anyway. George/Mitchell, implied George/Tully


**Disclaimer: **Nothing's mine**.**

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**Nightmares**

He doesn't tell him everything, of course. He hasn't told anyone, and John Mitchell's no exception, not with this. When George talks about himself, when he explains how it was so dark, even whith the full moon shining behind the clouds, how he shouldn't have gone out but he'd had a fight with his dad, he leaves out some of the details. They're fuzzy, anyway, it's not like he remembered every little thing, he tells himself.

Mitchell doesn't ask, either. He smiled sympathetically at him, at the beginning –and that was the moment George decided he knew, he knew somehow and he understood and it's okay, that was the moment he decided they might be something like friends.

Some nights he still wakes up sweating, heart beating so fast he thinks he's having a stroke, or something. He used to bite his lip, before, to keep from screaming; now he looks for Mitchell's mouth, for his arms, for anything. He lets himself be held until the shivering passes, and everything's alright again. He keeps his eyes open anyway, just in case.

You should talk about it, you know, Mitchell tells him one of those nights. They've just arrived to the pink house, and it's nice to have something of their own again, even if it includes an obnoxious, annoying ghost he may be starting to get on with. It could help, adds the vampire; George shakes his head.

I don't know what you're talking about, he says. Mitchell frowns, gets up, and suddenly the bed feels cold and so huge and awful. He's never done that before.

Fine, and George doesn't want to look at him. Don't talk, then.

When Mitchell leaves, George tries not to scream.

He doesn't recognize him, of course. He didn't see him like this, after all. It was just an animal, back then, back when his life was normal and everything was fine and he didn't have to turn into a monster once a month. It was just an animal, vaguely man-shaped, and, anyway, he doesn't remember it that well.

But he shudders when Tully touches him, the first days. And he does his best to put on a smile while Annie and Mitchell act so nice and welcome him into their house –their pink house– and the older werewolf tries so hard to get on with him. As if he really wanted to know him, George. As if he felt he owed him something.

He wakes up on the third day sweating, heart beating so fast he thinks he's having a stroke, or something. And Mitchell isn't there, for some reason, and he gets out of the bed because it's cold, empty, huge. He goes downstairs.

Tully's there, of course, sprayed on the sofa like he owned the place. He kind of does; George can smell him everywhere.

He's up even before George reaches him. He has the strangest eyes, the younger werewolf thinks –they're a mixture of a human's and an animal's, they're like those of an oh-so-clever-beast, a monster–, and maybe this time he could recognize them, but he doesn't want to. Doesn't need to.

Bad night, uh?, asks the man on the couch. George nods. Sit down here, Tully tells him and, strange enough, he complies. George is not so keen on these feel-better chit-chats. Not with a stranger, anyway; not with a stranger with those eyes, and that smile that's way too nice for him. He sits on the other side on the couch, stiff. Tully doesn't go closer.

You'll learn to live with this, he says. He has a weirdly friendly tone, like he knows what he's going through. Like he doesn't need him to tell, because it's right there, on the surface, exposed for everyone to see. It makes George feel uncomfortable. It's one thing to have Mitchell know, somehow, always keeping quiet and watching over him. This, this is just too much for him.

When he tries to get up, however, there's a hand on his wrist, trapping it. He could shake it off, he thinks. It isn't so strong. Not like this.

That night, he remembers, that night it was difficult to move. The weigh was too much, and he tried to scream –dawn would be breaking soon– but he found his mouth full of fur, his voice shaking. The moon was going down, and the creature before him could've been a man, he thought, it could have been anything. It had the strangest eyes, a mixture of both an animal's and a human's. They wer like those of an oh-so-clever beast, a monster. He would never forget those eyes, he told himself. Never.

He sits down again, on the couch. Tully's looking at him with worry, like he really cared. Like he was just the nice guy with the weird ideas and that air of nonchalance about him. He finds himself calming down, just barely.

You will live through this, son, he says. George nods, and he doesn't want to. The older man reaches out to him, gets closer and closer until he can feel his warmth. He smells like tobacco, sweat, the light scent of Mitchell's shampoo.

It smelled like grass and blood, that night. Full moon no longer visible, its shape was a blur, nothing like he'd seen before. It could have been a man, but it was not. It was something else. Something worse.

It was everywhere, laud howls and yellow teeth. It ripped his clothes and George couldn't move, couldn't scream, couldn't do a damn thing and just wished it would go away. It bit. It scratched. It hurt.

Tully takes a deep breath. Closes his eyes for a second, seems to smell the air – to smell him, George.

Please, the younger man tries, weakly. I'm going back to bed.

But he doesn't move. He didn't move, back then, either. And Tully leans even closer, eyes still closed and lips parted, and reaches for his mouth. For a second, George lets himself be pulled into the kiss. Teeth and tongue and saliva, and everything is intense, and there's something primal, there.

Then, he breaks it.

He remembers the pale light of the early morning, the thing screaming and changing in front of him, the way it looked at him with eyes that were too wild to still be human, too knowing to be anything else. There was pain in his shoulder; he was crying, then. And the form crawled to him –he now knows it had to be painful, it had to be so difficult for him– and maybe it kissed him, bit his lip until there was blood. You'll live through this, son, it said, voice rough and akward. Maybe he dreamt it.

George gets up from the sofa. I'm going back to bed.

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**Danny**


End file.
